


Keep Your Enemies Closer

by sheesusnat



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Bickering, COVID Cup playoffs, Casual Sex, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Rare Pair, life in the NHL bubble, unexpected sexual tension, very rare pair actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:33:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26343430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheesusnat/pseuds/sheesusnat
Summary: The NHL's 2020 Stanley Cup Playoffs are already weird enough: it starts with 24 teams, 12 teams from the Western Conference and 12 from the East. There are exhibition games in July. Some of the teams have to play a 5-game qualifying round just to officially make the playoffs.Boone has to get used to the idea of living in a hotel, getting tested daily, doing interviews via Zoom, and playing every game--home and away--on the same sheet of ice. He expected all of this before he ever got to Toronto.But he didn't expect to be in a hotel room on a floor that is otherwise full of Maple Leafs players, with a very uptight Morgan Rielly next door. And now he's wondering just how close he's supposed to get to his enemies.
Relationships: Morgan Rielly/Boone Jenner
Comments: 54
Kudos: 117





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> For artistic purposes, there is some information about daily life in the bubble that I've run with even though I have no real confirmation about it. Also while I tried to stick pretty true to the events of the games as they happened, there are a few points where I switched players around a little bit to better fit the narrative. 
> 
> Some quick love to [kallmekmk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kallmekmk) for suggesting this idea!

Boone is seated in his usual spot on the bus--second row from the back, next to Jonesy--when Cam comes from his seat up front, Nick following behind, and both stop in front of them. Nick has his serious Captain-Look on his face. "Alright boys, we have a small problem and I'll need help from one of you."

"Is this really a small problem or are you gonna tell us that someone got a positive COVID test?" Cam asks, and sure, Boone had been thinking the same thing, but he wasn't going to say it out loud.

Nick rolls his eyes and thwaps Cam against the side of the head. "You know they were strict as fuck about that, and I'm not going to come to you with something that serious on the team bus."

Seth chuckles and leans back in his seat, suddenly more relaxed, and Boone is pretty sure he was thinking the exact same thing, but now he doesn't have to admit it out loud. "So what's going on, then?"

"It's a hotel thing, they're trying to get each team on a floor together, but it isn't working out perfectly, and unfortunately ours is one of those teams that didn't fit. So we're all on the 15th floor, except that we have one room a floor down." He pauses and flips through some papers. "Right, just the one room is separate from ours, and I was hoping one of you guys would bite the bullet for us? I'd rather you guys than one of the kids."

"Oh, that's it?" Boone chimes in, waving a hand dismissively. "I'll take it, I don't care where my room is."

"You sure you don't mind?"

"Fligs, I'm gonna be down a flight of stairs, not across town. It's no big deal, sign me up for it."

Nick claps him on the shoulder. "Thanks, Booner, appreciate it."

____

Boone's room is at the very end of the hall on the 14th floor, across from the stairwell entrance. Whatever other team is on the same floor hasn't yet arrived, so he has the entire corridor to himself as he unloads his stuff. It's hard to know what to pack for what could be, if all goes well, a two month road trip; he's pretty sure he brought entirely too much with him. 

It's a hotel room, there's no good way to hide it, but he can get used to that. The bed is comfortable, the sheets are soft, there are photos of his brothers and his mom on the desk, and next to those is a binder full of information about the various amenities that the league has set up in the bubble. It feels a bit like hockey camp from when he was growing up, only this is the ritziest hockey camp in the world. He won't have to worry about his own laundry or cooking his own meals, and the league has concierges who can bring him anything he might need from the world outside. All in all, it's not a bad way to spend a couple of months.

He takes an hour and unpacks everything. He brought a suit just because it seemed weird to not have one, so he hangs that next to the only three collared shirts he bothered to include. Otherwise everything goes into the drawers under the tv. He sets up his PS4 and is digging out his Macbook when there's a loud knock at his door. 

"Are you in exile, buddy?" PLD asks as he barrels into his room, grinning broadly. "Why'd you get stuck down here?" 

Right behind him is Josh. "Obviously it just means this is the room we're going to be in the most, Fliggy can't yell at us for being loud if he can't hear us."

Boone shakes his head but leaves the latch over so that his door doesn't lock; he can only imagine more of his teammates will have the same thought. Sure enough, within a couple of hours Jonesy, Murr, Wenny and Z have joined in. They've ordered room service, set up a COD tournament, and are currently debating if they're allowed to get the concierge to bring them a case of Molson.

There's a pounding on the door and Boone laughs, shaking his head as he goes to answer it. "Holy shit, which one of you assholes ordered more room service?" 

On the other side of the door, however, it's not a masked hotel employee delivering food, instead it's a _very_ annoyed Morgan Rielly, who looks just as shocked to see him standing there. "Oh, well shit, I thought it was just us on this floor."

"We were a room short upstairs," Boone explains, arms crossed over his chest. "Can I help you?"

"Actually yeah, if you're gonna have a party, can you move it up to your floor? You're sharing walls with other people here." Morgan gestures down the hall, where a few other Leafs players are idling around.

Boone steps outside of his room and looks around. "Seems to me I only share one wall, actually. I'm sure you have earplugs."

Morgan rolls his eyes, a bit dramatically if you ask Boone. "Just keep it down, yeah? A little courtesy for everyone else."

"Yeah, I'll keep it in mind. Have a _great_ night, eh?" Boone lets the door slam shut behind him and doesn't give it another thought. "Alright boys, who's up first for COD?"

____

Boone's first stop the next morning is the Tim Horton's truck parked behind the hotel. The problem being that when he arrives, along with a couple of guys wearing Flyers caps, Morgan is in line in front of him. Boone considers going back inside until he's gone, but in the end decides that he has no reason to hide; he didn't do anything wrong. He steps up behind Morgan and takes out his phone, checking Instagram while he waits.

"If you hadn't been throwing a party so late, you probably wouldn't need coffee this morning," Morgan grunts when he notices him. "And I wouldn't need near as much."

Boone scoffs and pockets his phone. "Dude, it was like 10pm and none of us even have games for a couple of days yet, and you're out here being the noise police?"

"It's about a routine," Morgan nods in appreciation when he gets his coffee, then turns back to Boone. "This whole bubble thing is weird enough, a routine will make it easier to manage."

"Okay, but routine doesn't mean you've gotta be in bed hours before midnight," Boone counters. "It wasn't even late, and it's not like we were being _that_ loud."

"Look, I just like to wind down for the night kind of early, alright? I sleep way better, and then I'm better on the ice." Morgan has his credentials lanyard twisted around his hand, and he keeps clenching it in a fist. "I have a schedule I like to keep, and you assholes were disturbing it."

"Holy shit, it was Call of Duty at 10 o'clock, it wasn't a rager going until 3am." When Morgan rolls his eyes, Boone doubles down. "Jesus Christ, dude, were you this uptight when we played at World Juniors? It was the first fucking night, I'm not going to be having half of my team in my room every day."

"This is an important series for us, so we all need to be our best, and for me that means getting good rest." Morgan shakes his head, clearly frustrated. "But whatever, you don't get it anyway. Just if you could, try to keep it down from here on out?"

Boone smirks, smug and sarcastic, and holds his hand up in a mock salute. "You've got it, Mr. Rielly. I'll keep the troops in line just for you. We wouldn't want to interrupt your beauty sleep, you need all you can get."

"Jesus, were you such a dick in juniors? I don't remember it." 

"I'm pretty sure I'm the same dude I was back then, somewhere along the line you just apparently became an uptight asshole and guess I managed to avoid that." Boone smiles at the girl in the Timmy's truck when she hands over his double-double and then heads back toward their hotel. "I get that you're all pissed off about the whole annual playoff meltdown thing, but me making a little noise isn't going to be the thing that takes you guys down. We'll do that on the ice."

Morgan curses under his breath, shoving the door open with more force than necessary. "I'm sorry, I forgot. You guys have a very storied history down there in _Columbus._ You're just lucky no one gives a shit."

"Oh yeah, the good old bullshit about how no one cares about hockey outside of _Toronto_ ," Boone says, drawling out the last word. He takes a drink of his coffee, noticing Fliggy and a few of the other Jackets standing near the front door of the hotel, waiting for the bus to head for practice. He glances back at Morgan, insistent on getting the last word. "You worry about your own team, don't look to me for excuses when you lose."


	2. Chapter 2

Boone has to admit, despite the far-from-ideal circumstance, the league has done a pretty good job of making this bubble idea work. Their training and practice spaces are just as good as in Columbus, if not quite as comfortable knowing that they're shared with several other teams. It's weird doing interviews via Zoom, but it's not the worst thing in the world having fewer social media types in their faces all day. 

It's an odd prospect, the idea of being in this bubble for the next month, maybe two if the Jackets can get in a groove. Boone knows it'll be easier for him than some of his teammates; he's single, he doesn't have children, he doesn't even have a dog at home. Spending a couple of months in a hub city won't keep him from too much. He can see how much guys like Cam, Savvy, Fliggy are all missing their wives and kids. He just hopes they can make it all worthwhile.

They have a full practice on the ice and some weight room time, and after that it's back on the bus to the hotel and the lounge that's been set up for their team for a video session. Torts is mostly focusing on game tape of their own season today, but in the coming days they'll start breaking down stuff from the Maple Leafs. They get their daily COVID-19 testing done and then there's a catered meal waiting for them for dinner. 

Normally Boone and some of the other young guys would go out for the evening if they were on the road without a game to play, but the league has them pretty restricted, at least for these first few days in the bubble. No going to restaurants, no trekking down the road to Starbucks, not even a walk around the block. Guys linger in the lounge and bullshit for a while, but eventually they all splinter off to the 15th floor of the hotel to their rooms, and Boone follows them, joining in with a poker game that Josh started. He knows Josh is always good to give up a nice $100 each time they play cards.

He gets back to his own room late, and apparently the rest of the Leafs have the same mindset as Morgan, because the hallway is empty. Boone texts with his brother, Cole, for a while and then falls asleep sometime after midnight during a marathon of _Chopped_. 

It feels like only minutes later that there's an obnoxiously loud beeping coming through the wall. It sounds like a warning siren on a submarine. Boone grabs for his phone, looking at it with one squinted eye: 5:45am.

_What the fuck._

The alarm goes silent and Boone flops onto his other side to go back to sleep, irritation crawling up his spine. Who the fuck gets up before six in the morning? No wonder Morgan was bitching about noise at 10 o'clock if he's getting up before the fucking sun comes up.

He's just started to drift back to sleep when the alarm sounds _again_.

"Are you _fucking_ kidding me?" Boone asks out loud, though he's sure it's not enough to hear through the wall. Not like Captain Air Raid Siren next door. But the alarm goes off after a few seconds again, and then there's silence, so Boone just burrows deeper into the bed. He's annoyed now, though, muttering to himself about how _Morgan_ should have some courtesy for the people around him.

He hasn't even stopped grumbling when the alarm blares for a third time. Boone sits up in bed and checks the time. Apparently Morgan's a snooze guy, because he's hit the nine minute mark twice, it's now 6:03. Boone leans over and grabs a shoe from next to the bed and uses it to hit the wall over his head in protest of the noise.

Silence once more, but now Boone is on alert. Anger has him wide awake--at fucking _six in the goddamn morning_ \--and now he's going to have to fight to get back to sleep before his own alarm wakes him at 7:45. 

At 6:12, just as Boone suspected, snooze alarm number three rings through the wall, and he's up out of bed immediately, fully unconcerned that he's shirtless in only a pair of cutoff sweats and barefoot; he storms out of his room and pounds on Morgan's door. And he just keeps pounding until finally Morgan pulls it open.

"What the actual fuck, dude?" Morgan asks, bleary-eyed. "It's six in the morning."

"Yeah I'm aware, the fucking submarine horn next door alerted me to it."

Morgan has the grace to flinch. "Ah, shit. I didn't realize it was loud enough for anyone else to hear."

"They probably heard it in fucking Ottawa," Boone rolls his eyes. "So much for the common courtesy shit, eh bud?"

"Look man, I'm sorry, I'll turn the volume down." Morgan grimaces and rakes a hand through his too-long hair. "You've gotta calm the fuck down though, it's not that big of a deal."

"Oh okay, me having a few guys hanging out well before midnight is incredibly disruptive but the blaring alarm _with three snoozes_ at fucking six in the morning is 'not a big deal?' Who the fuck gets up this early anyway? None of us have shit planned for hours yet."

Morgan sighs and leans against the frame of his door, and even with bedhead and wearing sweats and a Nike t-shirt that's seen better days, he paints a pretty imposing figure. Boone isn't a small guy, but Morgan probably has 20 pounds on him. Maybe more. Boone isn't entirely sure why this information is valuable to him right now, but he chalks it up to exhaustion. 

"I know things are weird as hell here, but even with nothing to do, I've gotta keep to a routine or I'm totally screwed." Morgan scratches over his jaw and snorts a laugh. "You think that's a load of bullshit anyway, I don't know what I'm trying to explain it for."

"Okay sure, routine, but what are you gonna do at the asscrack of dawn here? You can't go for a run or anything else, not unless you plan to do sprints in the stairwells. Get some fuckin' sleep, the rest would probably do you better." Boone is suddenly aware that he's standing in a hotel hallway, arguing with the guy he's going to be facing on the ice in the very near future, in nothing but a pair of shorts. This isn't a conversation he should be dragging out.

Morgan rubs a hand over his face, and there's no anger in his words this time, just resignation. "Look, you just don't get it. I have my habits, I know what works, I've gotta stick with it."

Boone had expected another smartass remark implying Morgan was more dedicated, but this is entirely different. There's no fight in Morgan right now, and now Boone feels a little bad for snapping at him. "Hey, if you're sure it works for you, I guess you stick with it." He chooses his words carefully, going for something less mocking than before. "You just don't look any more pumped about the asscrack-of-dawn thing than I am, so I don't know, maybe just try to go back to sleep for a while? There'll still be nothing to do an hour from now."

He half expects another battle, but Morgan sags against the door instead, a weak smile on his face. "I appreciate the concern, Jenner, but I'm already up now. I'll turn the volume down on the alarm for tomorrow, though."

"Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks." Boone hesitates, and just before Morgan closes the door again, he puts a hand on it to stop him. "And uh, I'll try to keep it quiet over in mine too." 

The smile on Morgan's face goes just a little bit wider. "Thanks. I'll see you around."

Boone crawls back into bed and stretches out, staring at the ceiling, picking out patterns in the texture of it. As promised, Morgan stays quiet next door, and eventually, Boone drifts back to sleep.

____

Now that all of the teams are starting to settle into the routine in Toronto, getting used to the rotating schedule for practice, ice time, testing, Boone doesn't see much of Morgan for a couple of days. Even with the awkward Zoom-meeting style press, Boone notices a lot more interest than they usually get from the media. There are more questions to answer, and most of those come from Toronto-based outlets instead of any in Ohio. Boone grew up close enough that he knows what a circus Toronto media can be even for standard midseason games, let alone this altogether different scenario of 2020, with qualifiers and round robins and training camp in July.

The Maple Leafs win their exhibition game and Boone can hear voices in the hall when they get back, though they all seem pretty distant. As expected, he hears the door next to his slam shut early on in their arrivals, and outside of the faint noise of Morgan chatting--probably on the phone with his parents, Boone would guess--it's pretty quiet on the other side of his wall. For his part, Boone goes upstairs when he wants to hang out with his teammates, trying to honor their tentative truce.

The Jackets have one of the last games before the qualifiers start, a Thursday night tilt against the vaunted Bruins, the best team in the regular season by a sizable margin. Boone says all the right things to the press after the 4-1 win, but he thinks they were all a little surprised at going up 3-0 in the first period and not looking back. With as weird as the year has been, he supposes it makes perfect sense that hockey wouldn't be at all predictable now that they're back. His teammates are hyped up when they return to the hotel, ready to battle, ready to prove that their sweep of Tampa last season wasn't a fluke.

Boone pushes the button for his floor, one below everyone else, and next to him Luc and Z boo loudly. 

"Gonna spy on the competition for us, Booner?" Josh asks, putting both hands on his shoulders and shaking him. "You're right in the thick of it, mess with them good."

"I'm sure they're going to be very eager to discuss game strategy loudly right outside of my door, guys. I'll make sure I take notes." Boone snickers and rolls his eyes as he steps off the elevator. "It's just an exhibition win tonight, boys. Don't get too excited, this isn't gonna be easy. Get some rest."

A groan goes up from several of his teammates. 

"Yeah, yeah, we know that. We're just having a good time." Z seems a little annoyed at the guidance, but well, Boone figures that's part of wearing the letter on his jersey. Sometimes he has to be annoying to keep these guys in line.

The hallway is clear as he makes his way down to his room at the end; he can hear voices from behind a few of the doors, loud music coming from a couple others, and just a few steps ahead of him Morgan steps out from one, a wide grin on his face, still talking to whatever teammate is inside. "I'm gonna get Keefe to kick your ass at practice tomorrow if you're up all night playing Warzone."

Boone checks the time on his phone: 11:13. As he catches up to Morgan he can't resist a little dig. "Uh oh, someone's up a little late tonight." 

Morgan is still smiling when he glances Boone's way and all of a sudden he's smiling back, an involuntary reaction. Every other time they've seen one another since they got into the hub city they've been glaring at each other, but the smiling...it's nice. They fall into step with each other as they head down the corridor.

"Yeah, yeah, I got caught up watching Mitchy lose at COD six times in a row. It's great to sit back and tell him how much he sucks at it." He pauses outside of his door, leaning against the wall. "Good job against the Bruins, by the way. I was checking the score."

Boone is taken aback, not expecting a compliment like that from a guy who's an opponent starting in just a few days. "Oh, uh. Yeah, we got a lead early and we were able to sit on it. Thanks. You guys looked pretty good against the Habs too, looks like it's gonna be a battle for both of us I guess." He pulls his key from his pocket and twists it back and forth between his fingers, finding that he doesn't really want to rush into his room just yet. 

"We're probably gonna be seeing a lot of each other out there. We're gonna hate each other when it's all over."

"Hey, don't sell yourself short. I kinda hated you as soon as we got here." Boone means it as a chirp, but Morgan's eyes snap up to his, somehow lit up and a bit murky at once. 

"If anyone should've hated the other right away, I'm pretty sure it should've been me," Morgan says, and his body language has shifted. He's standing taller, matching Boone's height, taking up too much space. 

A crackle of adrenaline works down Boone's spine and he squares his shoulders. He's not sure if this is a fight that he's gearing up for or something else entirely. Either way, it has his blood pumping. Boone takes a half step forward, getting into Morgan's space, well aware that this is probably not bubble-approved distance and not giving a damn. He crosses his arms over his chest, mirroring Morgan's stance, and goes for what he hopes is a challenging smirk.

"So you're saying you _should_ have hated me, but you aren't saying that you _did_. All that bark without any bite? How disappointing." 

"There's plenty of time to change that." Morgan purses his lips and for only the briefest moment he rakes his gaze down Boone's body before meeting his stare once more. "One way or another."

Boone clenches his jaw taut and swallows once, mentally thumbing through one comeback after another, knowing that he's just gawking now, eyes drifting over the thick line of Morgan's neck, the pull of fabric over his chest and biceps. He wants to be a smartass, wants to say something cutting, something scathing. Instead, he flips his key card up between his fingers, one brow lifted in invitation and blurts out the one thing he really shouldn't. "You wanna come inside for a while?"

The grin that slides over Morgan's face is smug, victorious. He steps close to Boone, nearly touching, and then the soft beep of Morgan's door being unlocked cuts the silence. "Get some rest, Jenner. You're gonna need it."

Boone is left alone, breath caught in his throat and pulse thundering in his ears, staring at a closed door. 


	3. Chapter 3

This series may not be considered the actual playoffs, just a qualifying round, but the first game against the Leafs has all the earmarks of post-season hockey. Both teams try to lock down the offense of the other--a much tougher task for Columbus, Boone is well aware--and neither wants to make a mistake that goes the other way. Korpi is in the zone, stopping everything that comes at him and making it look easy. Boone spends as much of the game trading shoves with Muzzin as he does facing off against Morgan, but when they do have shifts together, he'll admit that he's playing with a little more grit.

On one shift Boone gets shoved into the boards a little harder than usual and he leans right back into it, trying to knock Morgan off-balance, which he discovers isn't really an easy task. Shoving him is like coming up against a punching bag, and Boone wonders how many pounds Morgan is over his listed 217. (He didn't go out of his way for the information, he swears it. They've just been scouting this team for weeks, is all.) 

Toward the end of the second period, Boone is battling in front, the puck in his feet, and he's trying everything he can to get his blade on it in the midst of the scramble, but he's got Morgan cross checking him in the back over and over. Finally Andersen reaches out and snags the puck and gets a whistle, so Boone turns to get up in Morgan's face, shoving his stick into his midsection. 

"Watch your fucking stick, asshole."

Morgan shoves Boone back, advancing on him. "Get the fuck out of the blue paint and you won't have to worry about my stick."

Boone lunges at Morgan, trying to push him away fully, but Morgan gets an arm around him and they grapple for balance until Morgan has him twisted in a full headlock, pulling him out of the fray of other players gathered in front of Andersen. Finally Boone gets himself free and he glares back at Morgan. "It's not a fuckin' wrestling match."

"Break it up, boys, break it up." A referee steps between them, holding one hand out at Boone's chest, the other holding up his whistle, blowing it a couple of times in succession. "Play's dead, back off or you each get two."

Morgan is still swearing at him as Boone skates off for a line change, but in the end Boone gets his revenge, even if he's not on the ice for it. Just a minute into the third period, Cam goes in at full speed, just edging out Morgan on the play and snipes one into the net. Korpi manages to stave off the Leafs' offense and with 20 seconds left, Wenny glides in for an empty netter to seal the win. It might only be a qualifier, but going up 1-0 in a series still feels damn good.

Boone isn't one of the guys tapped for media after the game and he's more than fine with that. He gets on the bike for a few minutes and gets some quality time with a foam roller for the ache in his lower back before showering and changing back into street clothes. He's pretty sure the lack of a dress code isn't going to stick around after this weird end of the season, but he wishes it would. It's nice to forgo a suit for jeans and a polo.

He's one of the last guys to leave the arena, walking back to the hotel with Cam and Fliggy, Korpi just behind them with his headphones on and in his own little world. They head straight up to their rooms but Boone takes his time, assuring them he'll wait for the next elevator when the first car is a little too crowded. Mostly he doesn't necessarily want to let them know he's planning to get off one floor early. If he does that, he can walk down the hall and head up the stairwell that will open right in front of his hotel room door. He's sure he'd get chirped for it, but he would rather not walk down a corridor full of presumably pissed off Maple Leafs.

Key already in hand, Boone walks out from the stairwell with the intention of keeping his head down, getting into his room and absolutely doing his best to avoid speaking to anyone else. Only problem being that apparently someone else had other plans; when he gets to his floor, there's Morgan, changed into basketball shorts and a Nike hoodie, leaning on the wall between their doors, head down as he taps out something on his phone. He looks up at Boone and there's not even a trace of the smile he'd worn the night before.

"Pretty sure I'm rethinking that whole 'hating you' thing now, if that's what you were going for." His gaze is hard, angry, and he turns to watch as Boone taps the card over the sensor to unlock his door. He's not quite close enough to touch Boone, but one step from either of them and it would close the distance.

Boone's pulse kicks up a notch and it's not because he's afraid, even if that would be a reasonable reaction to the situation at hand. He doesn't fumble with his words tonight, determined that he isn't going to give Morgan the chance to take the upper hand this time. 

"Don't blame me, bud. I'm not the one who dealt you the two minuses." Boone pushes his door open and steps inside, the door swinging wide and leaving time for Morgan to decide if he's going to follow. He does.

"That's your argument for why I shouldn't hate you?" Morgan flips the latch when the door closes behind them. He looks Boone over once, twice, contemplating. "Nope, gotta do better than that."

Boone steps out of his shoes, his back to Morgan, keeping his voice casual, like this is any other conversation. So far it is. "Oh, I'm not making any kind of argument about that. You're welcome to hate me. I'm just saying that if you're looking to be pissed off, I'm probably not the best outlet for the anger. It was Cam that made you look dumb on the first one, and Wenny made you look like you didn't even give a shit on the second."

It's the wrong thing to say. Or the right one, depending on how Boone wants this to go.

"Go fuck yourself," Morgan's voice isn't quite a growl, but it's nothing Boone's ever heard out of him before. He crowds Boone in against the wall next to the closet, hands braced on either side of his shoulders. Morgan's hair is still wet from his post-game shower, curling up around his ears, and Boone wants to pet it down to see if it'll spring back up. This probably isn't the time.. "Don't ever fucking tell me I don't _care_ about this team."

The AC in the room isn't nearly cold enough, even as it's whirring away; it's the only noise he can hear other than his own pulse in his ears, and it's drowning out all the reasons why this is probably a terrible idea. Boone licks over his lips, heat pooling low in his belly as he watches Morgan's eyes follow the motion. He then lets his grin go lazy, mocking, and he stands tall, all six feet and two inches, so they're face-to-face, close enough for him to feel Morgan's shuddered exhale on his skin. 

"If you care so much about your team, why are you in my room?"

Boone barely gets the last word out before Morgan is kissing him, fierce and punishing, one large hand pressed to his chest to hold him in place. Boone fists both hands in Morgan's shirt, hauling him closer still, not even space for light to get between them. Morgan gets one leg between both of Boone's and rocks their hips together, and Boone hisses out a breath between his teeth. Boone slides his hands under Morgan's shirt, splays his fingers along his waist, nails scratching over his skin; it's not enough to mark, but Morgan still stops him and pushes his arms up, holding both wrists, crossed over each other, above his head. 

They stand that way for a moment, panting into each other's mouths, Morgan rolling his hips into Boone's over and over. Morgan slides his free hand to his throat, tightening just enough to get Boone's attention. He isn't quite choking him, just a little pressure on his Adam's apple and the pulse points below his ears, but there's no mistaking that Morgan doesn't plan to let Boone move until he's good and ready. Boone wishes he wasn't so desperate for it right now, dying to see what happens next. He ruts forward against Morgan's thick thigh, needing some friction, needing _something_. 

" _Please_." He doesn't even mean to say it out loud; the plea comes out on a shuddered exhale, and for just a moment Morgan's fingers tighten around his throat before he pulls away suddenly. Boone feels unmoored, off-balance, and then Morgan slides the same hand into Boone's hair, one quick, hard tug.

Morgan's eyes are dark with lust and his grin is triumphant as he yanks Boone away from the wall and shoves him toward the bed. "Kneel."

Boone unbuckles his belt, needing to get out of the jeans he wore after the game, his dick hard and aching against the zipper. Morgan curls a hand around his wrist and squeezes tight enough to hurt. 

"Knees. Now." The command is authoritative, but a moment later he tempers it, clarifying his intent, giving Boone an out if he wants it. "You're going to suck my dick."

Boone doesn't want an out.

Morgan sits on the edge of the bed and spreads his legs wide, so Boone follows his lead and gets down on his knees between them. He lifts his eyes to see Morgan looming over him, staring right back. He threads one hand through Boone's hair and pulls him in close, so Boone's face is pressed against the hard ridge of Morgan's cock through his shorts; Boone gives into it, nuzzling into the heat of him. He braces his hands on Morgan's calves and feels the muscles flexing when Morgan pushes his hips forward to grind his pelvis against Boone's face.

"Eager for it, are we, Boone?" Morgan asks, twisting his hand in Boone's hair, tipping his head back to meet his gaze. With his free hand he eases his shorts down, just enough to pull his cock out, hard and leaking. "You're gonna make me feel good, aren't you?"

"Yeah, fuck yeah I am," Boone swears, tongue darting out to wet his lips. His gaze shifts between the intensity in Morgan's face and the slick heat of his dick, just out of reach. It's been a while since he's given head, though it's not even close to his first time. It might just be his competitive spirit taking over, but he's going to make sure this is the best goddamn blowjob Morgan has ever had.

Morgan keeps one hand latched in Boone's hair and wraps the other around the base of his cock, guiding it toward Boone's lips. Boone opens his mouth and takes the first couple of inches easily, precome tangy on his tongue, and he notes with some satisfaction that Morgan sucks in a harsh breath when he closes his lips to let them glide. Morgan smells clean, still fresh from the shower, the scent of soap lingering on his skin, even though he's sweating a little now. Boone pulls off to swirl his tongue along the shaft before wrapping his lips around Morgan's cock again, taking him lower this time, lower still, until the head is pressing to the back of his throat. 

He swallows twice, fighting off the gag reflex, and then he gets into a good rhythm with it; sucks him down almost to the hilt and then pulls back only to gasp for breath. Boone might not quite be an expert at deep-throating, but judging by the hand fisted in his hair and the whispered _fuck, oh fuck_ , Morgan doesn't seem to mind. Boone tries to keep control of the pace but it doesn't last long, and when Morgan grips his head with both hands and just starts to _thrust_ , he goes along with it. It's messy, undignified; Boone can feel the drool dripping down his chin, into his beard, and it sounds positively filthy in the otherwise quiet room, Boone alternating between slurping and gagging around Morgan's dick.

"Yeah, _fuck_ , gonna come," Morgan warns, and though he keeps thrusting forward, erratic and unrestrained, his grip on Boone's hair goes slack--Boone could pull back if he didn't want Morgan to come in his mouth. 

Instead, Boone slides his hands up, lacing his fingers with Morgan's in his hair and tightens them, looking up through watery lashes to see if Morgan gets the message. He does. Morgan fists his hands tight again, fucking into Boone's mouth with three more stuttered thrusts before he's coming, hot and bitter on Boone's tongue. Boone swallows what he can, but he's out of practice, and the rest dribbles down his chin.

Morgan slumps back after that, one hand braced on the bed, the other still in Boone's hair, nails digging into his scalp a little. They're both catching their breath, for very different reasons, and Boone wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist. There's come and spit on the front of his shirt, a drop on the leg of his jeans. He's a mess.

He's also acutely aware that Morgan got off, but he's still hard in his pants and dying to have the favor returned. He unbuttons his pants and eases the zipper down, sighing at the relief, and then Morgan is tightening the hand in Boone's hair, tilting his face up for a kiss. The angle is foreign--Morgan towers over him like this, and Boone isn't used to leaning _up_ for a kiss--but the kiss sucks the air from his lungs anyway. It's searing, possessive; Morgan's tongue sweeps through his mouth, teeth biting down on his lip, enough that Boone wonders if he'll have a mark in the morning.

Boone pushes up to stand, knees protesting after being on the ground for so long, and pushes Morgan to lay back, kneeling over him. Boone yanks his shirt off and then shoves his pants down, tossing them in the corner with the rest of the laundry he'll need to send off to be washed. He straddles Morgan's thighs in just boxer briefs, ignoring that Morgan is still fully clothed, save for his softening dick hanging out of his shorts.

This time Boone initiates the kiss, raking his hands into Morgan's too long hair, twisting it around his fingers. Morgan's arms go around his waist, holding him still when all Boone wants is to rock against him, rub off against his hip, his stomach. 

"I should go," Morgan says quietly, suddenly, and Boone is sure that he heard wrong.

"Wait, what?"

Morgan shifts Boone off of his lap and gives a lopsided grin; he's going for sheepish, but he's failing, not that good an actor. "It's late, we've got early practice tomorrow. Gotta get some rest."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Boone sputters, motioning at his dick straining in his boxers. "What the fuck?"

Morgan shrugs a shoulder helplessly, then leans over and presses a biting kiss to Boone's mouth. "Get some rest, bud."

Boone throws a pillow at his retreating back, too stunned to even protest before the door is clicking shut. That son of a bitch absolutely planned all along to get a blowjob out of Boone and then leave him hanging. Boone is pissed off, but the anger does nothing to temper the heat swirling in his gut.

He gets himself off thinking of all the ways he's going to get Morgan back for this.


	4. Chapter 4

The first few days in the bubble it felt like there was a lot of down time, lots of hours to kill. But now that they have games every other day, Boone realizes that the day off is best used for rest and game prep. It's a pretty boring schedule to keep: practice, COVID test, a little bit of soccer with the guys, with a few meals thrown in between. 

Somewhere in the midst of all that, Boone might have put out an order for the concierge to bring condoms and lube to his room, but no one else needs to know that. He's been to enough tournaments and heard enough stories to know that it's a request that won't surprise the aforementioned concierge, he just doesn't need Morgan to know about it yet, and he especially doesn't want his teammates to know. They'll ask for more details than he's willing to divulge.

The second game against Toronto is an afternoon start, so Boone has breakfast early and the morning skate is more of a leisurely turn around the rink. He prefers night games--he's pretty sure most hockey players do--because taking a pregame nap at noon always feels ridiculous, but he knows he'll regret it if he skips that part of his routine. It's only somewhat restful, but Boone soldiers on and heads to the rink, determined to help the team go up 2-0. 

It doesn't go according to plan. Boone takes a penalty and can't seem to get anything going offensively; he spends plenty of time chasing the play, and a little bit more sitting on the bench swearing at himself for it. The shoving matches with Morgan are limited, but they each get a couple of solid cross checks in when the refs aren't paying attention. By the end of the third period, the Leafs are up two and the Jackets are on the powerplay before it all comes to a screeching halt. PL crosschecks Jake Muzzin and he goes down awkwardly, head-first into Bjorky's leg, and then he stays down on the ice. At first glance Torts is furious that the play was whistled down, but it doesn't take long to realize that this is more than just a stinger. 

Through an exhibition game and almost two full qualifying games, Boone hadn't noticed the emptiness of the arena around them. There's been music playing, pumped in crowd noise, plus the sounds of hockey that he's heard in his sleep since he was five years old: skates on the ice, stick hitting puck, glass rattling from a hit. In the aftermath of an injury though, all of the cacophony is silenced, and suddenly the empty arena feels eerie, uncomfortably so.

Even though Muzzin is clearly alert and moving his arms and legs, the sight of the crew coming onto the ice with the stretcher leaves a pit in Boone's stomach. It's a physical game and injuries are inevitable, but nobody wants to see anyone _really_ hurt. Boone is leaning over the boards and he risks a glance at the Leafs' bench. Morgan is talking quietly with Kerfoot, leaning heavily on his stick, his brow furrowed in concern, gaze shifting between the far corner where the med staff is working with Muzzin and then toward his teammates. He meets Boone's eyes for a moment, and Boone nods a bit, a silent show of solidarity.

After what feels like an hour but was only fifteen minutes, they drop the puck again. Even in an important game, it's tough to get the flow going again after a delay like that, especially when it's due to an injury, no matter which team. The Jackets are pressing but they can't get things going their way, and from the bench Boone watches as Morgan rips a shot through center ice and into the net to seal it. 

For as much as Torts spent most of the game yelling at them on the bench, as frustrated as Boone was for the entire game, the locker room afterward is mostly quiet, serious. Torts reminds them they need to be better if they're going to win this and Fliggy offers some words of encouragement, but there isn't a lot of heat behind the words. There simply wasn't enough time between Muzzin going down and the end of the game to get properly fired up again. It's still early when they get back to the hotel and Boone joins most of the rest of the guys in the team lounge for dinner. The Hurricanes and Rangers game is on but it's background noise. 

One by one they all filter back to their rooms, the older guys with families first, going to call their wives at home to say good night to their kids. Boone doesn't wait much longer, and he tells himself it's just that it was a hard game and he wants to get some good sleep after the lackluster nap early in the day. The anxious energy winding itself along his spine says otherwise, though. He knocks on Morgan's door when he gets to their floor, one quick rap of his knuckles, but there's no response. He can't hear anything inside--no TV, no music, no muffled voices--so he goes into his own room and waits for a while, aimlessly scrolling Instagram on his phone, until finally he hears voices in the hall. 

When the loudest one--Matthews, if he had to guess--quiets and goes distant, Boone swings his door open, leaning in the doorway; he timed it well because Morgan is still pulling his key card from his wallet. He looks up at Boone, surprised at first, but he goes from wide eyes to rolling them in just a breath. 

"You want to start something tonight? Wasn't it enough watching your boy take out Muzz?"

Boone matches his rolled eyes and scoffs. "You know Luc didn't plan for that to happen, it was a shitty coincidence." He pauses, though, and searches Morgan's face. "But have you guys heard anything?"

Morgan looks surprised again. "Oh. Yeah, we did. Looks like he'll be okay. Out for the rest of the series, but he should be back here tonight."

"Good." Boone knows he had a plan for this, figuring how to get Morgan back in his room to finish what he started after their first game, but it doesn't necessarily feel right at this moment.

"So...good night, then?" Morgan is hovering now, card in hand, just waiting to unlock his door. 

Boone doesn't want it to be 'good night,' not yet. Beyond any other plans he might've had, Morgan owes him for leaving him hanging. "It's barely past ten, you still doing that early to bed shit?"

"I don't know, Boone. I didn't think I had anything else to do tonight." Morgan steps over to stand in front of Boone, one hand on the doorframe just above Boone's shoulder. "But maybe you have some other ideas."

"Oh, I definitely have ideas." Boone pushes away from the door and glances past Morgan down the hall. All of his Leafs' teammates are inside their rooms. Perfect. He grabs the front of Morgan's hoodie--does he own anything else? This is at least the third one he's seen him in this week--and pulls him inside.

As soon as the door is closed he pushes Morgan back against it and captures his mouth in a growling kiss, biting down on his lip; it's already scarred, no one's going to notice if there's a little mark. Morgan gives it right back, slides his hands under Boone's shirt to dig his nails into the skin of his hips. Boone didn't even get to see him naked the last time, but that's not happening tonight. He shoves Morgan's damned hoodie up and off, knocking his backwards cap off in the process. He's got a t-shirt on beneath, but at least now Boone can get some idea of what his body looks like under it, broad and thick, heavy with muscle. 

He pulls Morgan into the room completely and pushes him down onto the bed, kneeling between his legs and yanking his own shirt off. Morgan's face is flushed and his breath is coming quick. There's no mistaking that he's into this, already chubbed up in his joggers, just what Boone was hoping for. 

Boone leans down over him, hands pressed to the bed on either side of Morgan's head, and kisses him again. It's just as fierce this time, teeth catching skin, but it's slower, not so desperate. Morgan's hands are all over him, rough over his back, fingers gripping at his ass, trying to fit their hips together. Boone goes with it, pleased at the satisfied groan it drags out when he grounds his dick down against Morgan's.

He wants to stay in full control of things tonight after Morgan left him blue-balled the last time, but Boone is too needy for it; it all feels a little too urgent. He yanks Morgan's shirt off finally and gets a good look at him: the barrel of his torso, just a bit soft at his waist, the dusting of hair at his sternum and down the center of his stomach. _Yeah_ , he thinks, and then Morgan chuckles and he realizes he might've said that part out loud.

"Not disappointed, then?" Morgan asks, and he's smirking, but Boone thinks maybe the question is a little more genuine than he lets on.

Boone meets Morgan's eyes and levels him with what he really hopes is a withering glare and cups himself through his shorts. "Oh yeah, my dick always gets this hard when I'm disappointed." 

Morgan keeps his gaze locked with Boone's and pushes his hand out of the way, rubs his own over Boone's cock, palming it through the fabric. Boone flexes forward into the touch, his breath catching in his throat, trying not to whine. It feels good, but it's not near enough, not when he's felt on edge since Morgan stormed out two nights ago. Morgan peels his shorts down and shoves them out of the way, his grin going heated when he sees the precome Boone has leaked through his boxers. 

"All worked up." Morgan comments, rubbing just his thumb back and forth over the wet spot, the sensitive head of Boone's dick. "Gotta be frustrated, huh?"

"I swear to god if you don't get me off this time, I'll murder you in your sleep," Boone grits out through his teeth.

Morgan laughs, quiet and a little breathless, and he hooks his calves around Boone's knees. "I get the impression you're in control here, so I don't think you're the one who's gotta worry about not getting off tonight."

"No, see, someof us are considerate." Boone roots into the bag the concierge had delivered to his room and pulls out the condoms and the lube, dropping them on the bed. He wants to fuck Morgan, _really_ wants to, but he's got to be sure Morgan's on board for it. "I can get my revenge and still make it a good time for you too."

"Oh, is that so?" Morgan asks, picking up the lube, examining the bottle, then setting it down. He looks up and meets Boone's gaze; he holds it, something competitive and determined in his expression as he slides his joggers down, followed by his boxers, and his now fully hard cock bobs up once it's freed. "I'm not sure I trust you're as good as you say you are. I'm going to need proof."

Game on. "I take it you've done this before, then?"

"Bottomed?" Morgan responds, bluntly, as he shifts to turn over. He gets up on his knees and braces his hands. "Few times. I prefer top, but if you're so insistent you can show me a good time, color me intrigued. Skeptical, but intrigued." 

Boone watches him getting into position with one brow lifted. "Christ, dude, you don't have to go all doggy-style to start, I was gonna get you ready first." 

"We've got a game in under 48 hours, and I've got to practice first thing in the morning. It's gonna be a lot more comfortable later if I'm like this. But you're goddamn right you're gonna get me ready first." Morgan takes a breath and lets it out slow, his jaw tight and his gaze forward.

Even with something as visceral and uncontrolled as good sex should be, Morgan is worrying about his routine, the responsibilities he'll need to attend to. Boone isn't surprised, but deep down there's a challenge presenting itself, to see if he can loosen Morgan up a little, see if he can make him forget about his schedule for a while. He settles in and kneels behind Morgan and his first move is to rub over those broad, tense shoulders, smoothing over the skin. There's a large, dark bruise on one side and Boone tests the pressure there, but Morgan doesn't flinch. "Doesn't hurt?"

"Hmm? Oh, that. Shit, I took a huge hit way back in my rookie year, giant bruise. It faded but never all the way, that's just kinda how it stuck." 

Boone nods, keeps massaging over his shoulders, letting his nails drag every so often, leaving soft white lines on his skin; they won't show tomorrow, but he likes them anyway. He leans in and presses a kiss to the space between Morgan's shoulder blades, up to the base of his neck just below where his hair starts to curl. His skin is faintly damp, not quite sweating yet, but Boone knows they'll get there. He's going to make sure of it. 

He traces his fingertips down Morgan's spine, divot by divot, relishing it when Morgan sucks in a breath and lets his head drop forward. Boone plants an open-mouthed kiss to the curve of his shoulder and pets over his ass, palming both of his glutes, just as firm as the rest of his lower body. 

"I'm gonna get my fingers in you a little, yeah? Help get you ready." Boone finds himself nuzzling into Morgan's hair while he talks, waiting for Morgan to nod before he grabs the lube. It's messy and he should've planned for this better, should've laid a towel down, but this isn't the time to worry about whether or not he's gonna sleep in a wet spot tonight. 

Morgan gulps in a sharp breath at the first press of his finger so Boone stills, kissing along the muscle in his shoulder that's so taut it's twitching. It takes a few shallow, stuttered gasps but Morgan starts to relax against him and Boone takes it as a victory. He eases his finger deeper, an easier task this time, but he keeps his lips pressed to Morgan's skin, just below his ear, listening to his reactions; good or bad, Boone wants to know how he's feeling, so he can adjust.

It takes some time and effort, one finger and two, then a third, but eventually Morgan goes pliant, his shoulders sagging and his jaw slack. Once he has Morgan to that point, no longer wincing but actively rocking back against his hand, that's when Boone withdraws his fingers and gets to work opening the condom. He makes it quick, but he isn't quiet about tearing the foil. This is Morgan's chance to back out.

"Come on," he grunts out instead. His whole back is slick with sweat now, the hair hanging on his neck wet from it. He still doesn't look back at Boone, staring down at the bed instead, blinking slowly. 

Boone slicks himself with more lube and positions himself behind Morgan, lining his cock up and pressing in slow, so fucking slow. "Push back for me, that's it," he says, voice raw, but fighting to sound like he's more in control than he feels.

"I know how to g-get fucked, Boone." Morgan mutters, but he does exactly that, rocks his hips back to meet Boone's thrusts. It makes it easier and it also makes it feel so much better, definitely for Boone, and hopefully for Morgan too. 

It always takes a moment to find the right rhythm the first time you fuck someone, trying to figure what they like, whether they want it faster or slower, rough or gentle. Boone listens and watches; he notices the way Morgan's back arches when he tilts his hips up a little bit, the way he sucks in a breath when Boone gives a quick, sharp thrust forward when he's in the midst of pulling out. Morgan is hot inside, and Boone doesn't know if the clenching he's doing is expertise or involuntary, but either way it's driving him crazy. 

Boone keeps his pace slower for now, wanting to draw this out, and he reaches around Morgan to get a hand on his dick. He's thrilled to find him just as hard as he was for the blowjob, thick and leaking precome, slicking the grip while Boone jerks him off. He tries to match it to his thrusts, but it's still erratic, off-beat. 

Morgan doesn't seem to mind, he's cursing below his breath, just babbling words that Boone mostly can't quite hear, but is pretty sure are all good things. Boone shifts his hips up and forward, finally finding a spot that makes Morgan's head snap back. 

"Oh _fuck_." 

He hears him that time. 

Boone thrusts faster now, trying to keep the same angle even if Morgan is bucking back to meet him, alternating between that and thrusting into his fist, chasing the friction. He groans out a warning, at least Boone is pretty sure that's what the muttered jumble of half-words is, because then he goes still, body arched taut as he comes, panting his way through it. Boone hides his face against Morgan's back, unconcerned with how sweaty they both are, the stickiness of their skin, and he bites the inside of his cheek hard, trying to hold off his own orgasm. It doesn't work, and with one last clumsy, ungraceful thrust, he follows Morgan over the edge, nothing but a string of _fuck_ s coming out of his mouth the whole time.

He stays there, slumped against Morgan, until he catches his breath. He needs to move, needs to get rid of the condom. He should shower again too, he smells like sweat and come. And he'll need to at least try to wipe off the bed. His mind wanders, wondering if he could lay a towel down _now_ , and it isn't until Morgan chuckles, squirming beneath him, that he realizes he's still buried inside of him, softening, and he's nuzzling his nose over the back of Morgan's shoulder, right over the old bruise there. 

"Sorry to burst the bubble here, bud, but I'm gonna need to get off my knees soon."

"Right, yeah of course, right." Boone bites his lip as he pulls out of Morgan, heading to the bathroom to toss the condom out, hesitating before grabbing one of the still-clean washcloths. Morgan is sitting back on his haunches when he returns, both hands raking through his hair. He tosses the cloth onto the bed in front of him. "Uh, if you needed this."

Morgan nods once and cleans himself up perfunctorily, then wipes up his come from where it had landed on the bed. Boone finds his shorts where he'd dropped them on the floor and tugs them up, keeping his eyes on anything else while Morgan shuffles around, stretching his legs and gathering his clothes.

"Guess we're even now, then?"

Finally Boone looks at him, his brows knitted together. "That's all you've got? Come on, you doubted me and I absolutely delivered, and now it's just--" he pauses to poorly mimic Morgan's voice--"'guess we're even now?' What the fuck is that?"

Morgan blinks at him a couple of times, just the faintest hint of a smile tugging on his lips. "Done with that outburst now? Fine, yeah, it was good. Great. You proved me wrong."

"You're damn right I did. I'm gonna be sleeping in a wet spot because of how great I was." Boone gives his most wicked grin and he pushes Morgan's hoodie into his chest. "And we're _definitely_ not even. You're still up 2-1, buddy. You owe me another orgasm."

Boone is really looking forward to game three.


	5. Chapter 5

Staring down a three goal deficit before the halfway mark of the second period is not how you want a game to go, much less a pivotal third game out of five. Torts pulls Korpi--not that it was really his fault--and Elvis goes in. During the pause, Boone is on the bench trying to get his team on track again; they still have a period and a half to bring this back. They've done it before.

And maybe, just maybe they can do it again.

PL is the first one to break through, sending a wrist shot in past Andersen that gets the Jackets buzzing once more. Elvis stands tall even as the Leafs put pressure on at the end of the second period, and Boone doesn't help the situation any by taking a penalty with only a minute left. The PK holds the fort, so even though they go into the locker room down 3-1, there's a little bit of faith, a little bit of belief. As long as they can hold the Leafs to three, they might be able to pull out a win.

A few minutes into the final frame, Seth scores to make it 3-2 and all of a sudden the Leafs are looking tentative, anxious. It feels like somewhere they've been before and don't have any desire to return. Meanwhile over on the Columbus bench, the overrunning theme is _work_ , keep going forward, keep wearing them down. The persistence pays off, because just a few shifts later, PL scores his second of the night to tie it up. 

The energy on the Leafs' side of the benches is entirely different than that of the Jackets'. Boone hasn't had nearly enough experience in NHL postseason games for being this deep into his career, but he understands the "this is what we play for" cliche. The adrenaline of a well-fought playoff game is an entirely different feeling than anything else in hockey, outside of playing for Canada at World Juniors. It's the best kind of pressure. 

Both teams scrape through the end of the third period and prepare for overtime, and Boone listens to Fliggy give encouragement in the room during intermission, adding whoops and cheers where appropriate, though he doesn't add many words of his own. That's not his leadership style, his leadership is something he shows out on the ice: putting himself in front of shots, putting opponents on their ass, taking a punch or two if needed. 

He doesn't need to take punches tonight, fortunately, though the OT period is a hard one. The ice is miserable, a side effect of playing hockey in August, and neither team can entirely get things going their way. With less than two minutes left before yet another intermission, the puck bounces and PL gets past Toronto's defenders--Boone definitely takes a little extra notice of Morgan's #44 chasing after him--and he ends it, sealing the comeback. Boone and the rest of the team leap off of the bench to pile onto the celebration happening on the ice. The room afterward is loud and raucous with the elation of knowing that they only need one more win and they can move to the next round.

Boone figures that the Leafs' side of things isn't nearly as cheerful. There aren't any media types in the room because of the COVID restrictions, and Boone isn't tapped to do press after the game, so he doesn't hear any of the talking points. He knows Toronto media, though, and he can only imagine the narrative they're pushing.

On the walk from the arena back to their hotel, though, Boone hears the chatter. Beyond players and team personnel, inside the bubble there are staff members from the various hotels and restaurants and other services that are taking care of the players. Other than the NHL employees, most of the people in the restricted areas are local, and as expected, are Leafs fans.

"It's the same shit, different year, man."

"Well you've got Marner demanding McDavid money and then he can't even show up for a playoff game. What did anyone expect?"

"I know Shanahan thinks he's got this grand plan in mind, but we're not even going to make it to the first round to get knocked out this year. He and Dubas have gotta go, they don't know what the fuck they're doing."

And it isn't just the fans inside the bubble. There's a TV on in the hotel lobby showing post game coverage and they're just berating the Leafs for each of their breakdowns. There's plenty of blame to go around--Marner, Andersen, Dubas, Barrie, the defense in general--and no one seems too forgiving about the bad ice or what a spectacular game Luc had to seal it for the Jackets. No one in Toronto wants to give Columbus credit, they're too busy tearing the Leafs down, asking for people to be fired, suggesting trades to be made in the offseason. 

He knows that back in Columbus, this win might get a mention at the beginning of the 11 o'clock news, and it'll be the top story for the sports report. There are definitely people who are going to notice the win, but it won't be the biggest draw of the night. Especially given the state of the pandemic within the US, even in their own city this huge comeback win for the Blue Jackets will be merely a blip on the radar.

Listening to the man and the woman at the front desk railing about what a waste the John Tavares signing was makes Boone wonder which is worse: too much attention, or none at all.

When Boone gets back to the hotel his floor is quiet, not that he's surprised. After giving up a 3-0 lead, and knowing that they have another game the following night, he can't imagine the Leafs wanted to do much more than go to their rooms and sleep. Hell, Boone is exhausted and he still has the adrenaline pumping through him from the OT win. 

He makes sure to close his door a little louder than usual, to alert Morgan that he's back. Given how frustrated Morgan was after the first game of the series, Boone can only imagine how he feels tonight. He changes into comfy pajama pants and doesn't bother with a shirt--he figures he won't be wearing it long anyway--and he waits. Then waits a little bit more. 

There's no noise coming from the other side of the wall, no talking, no television, no music. Just silence. Sure, it's nearly midnight, but there was a pattern they'd been keeping up.

Boone considers knocking on his door. He could antagonize him, needle him about losing track of PL on the game winner, pick at the wound until Morgan shoves him against the wall and shuts him up. Deep down, somewhere he doesn't want to explore too much, Boone realizes he might like the idea of Morgan pushing him around like that, shoving him to his knees, forcing his cock into Boone's mouth, his throat. 

An even quieter voice, though, doesn't like the idea of pouring salt on the wound. He's been the one at fault on a game-deciding goal before, and he knows that you don't need a reminder of what you did wrong. Morgan is going to be replaying that goal in his head all night.

In the end Boone doesn't do anything at all. He brushes his teeth and washes his face, all the time muttering to himself about how it's bullshit that Morgan would break the pattern like this. Boone has spent two days thinking about Morgan being on the topping side of things this time, and now it appears that he's not going to get it. He stretches out in bed and tries to let it all go, but he's restless, partially from the lingering excitement of the win but also from the arousal curled at the base of his spine that he never got to make use of. It takes him entirely too long to finally drift off to sleep.

There's an air horn blaring from the other side of the wall only a few minutes later, or at least that's what it feels like when he jolts awake, pulse racing. He glances at the clock: 6:45 AM.

After days of quiet alarms from next door, apparently Morgan decided that today is a special occasion, because the same ear-splitting noise is back. It continues for entirely too long and then finally falls silent, and Boone knows better than to trust this. He flops to his side and pulls one of the pillows over his head, grumbling to himself and just waiting for the snooze to go.

Sure enough, nine minutes later and the noise cuts through the wall once more, just as loud as if it was in the same room. 

Boone storms out of bed and into the hall, knocking hard on Morgan's door, not stopping at three raps. He just keeps knocking until finally he hears the latch turn and the door is opening. Morgan has dark circles under his eyes and his lips are set in a tight line. 

"Fuck off," he says, before Boone can even say a word. "I know, my alarm is too loud. Buy some fucking earplugs."

"What the fuck is your problem? I'd just like to actually sleep until a normal hour like normal people. You don't need the alarm that loud, you've gotten up just fine the last few days without it. Why are you being such a dick?"

"It was a late game, I can never wake up after an OT." Morgan levels a glare at Boone, unimpressed. "So can I help you with something or are you going to go the fuck away?"

Boone steps closer to him, into the doorway now, meeting his eyes, a mean smirk on his face. "Look here, bud, I'm not the one who made you fuck it all up on that game winner, so don't take it out on me."

He's expecting fury. He's expecting Morgan to grip his shoulders and slam him into the wall, to kiss him senseless, to bite down on his lip hard enough that one of his teammates is going to notice and give him shit about it. But what he gets is far worse.

Morgan's shoulders slump, and his gaze drops to the ground. "Yeah, I'm fuckin' aware. I'm gonna hear about it for months if we don't come back from this. Thanks for the reminder."

"Oh, uh. Well shit. I wasn't actually saying…" Boone trails off, not sure exactly what he was saying. He knows the puck bounced, he knows there wasn't much Morgan could do about it. He wasn't actually blaming him for the goal, but that's all Morgan heard. "I was just trying to fuck with you, don't get all serious about it."

Morgan gives him a tired, sad smile. "Haven't won a series since I've been here, Boone. I know how this goes. There's no choice but to be serious about it."

"When's your skate and testing this morning?" Boone asks, and the sudden change of subject makes Morgan's eyes snap up once more, confusion clear on his face.

"Wait, what? They're, uh...we have ice at 10:30 and we test after. Why?"

"Stay right here." Boone holds one finger up and then dips into his room. He grabs his key and his cell phone, and then heads back into the hallway. To his surprise Morgan did as he asked and he's still standing there, looking dead on his feet with his brows twisted up in confusion. Boone barrels past him and into his hotel room--tidy, cleaner than Boone's, no dirty clothes pile in the corner--and he ignores Morgan's protests.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"It's seven in the morning. You can't go for a run, and you can't get into any of the workout facilities this early." Boone sets his phone and key on the table next to the bed and turns to Morgan. "But you do need a distraction, and I'm gonna give you one."

And just because it's too damn early in the morning to be coy and he wants to be sure Morgan knows exactly what he's implying, Boone looks straight at him as he shoves his pants down. Morgan's jaw drops and his eyes go wide. "What the hell are you doing?"

Boone crawls onto Morgan's bed, stretching out on his back, and smirks. "Oh, scandalized? I've already swallowed your come and had my dick in you, pretty sure we can hang out naked now."

Morgan goes to talk once, twice, aborted half-words, before he slowly makes his way over to the bed. "Are you sure?"

"You're not fucking me on a game day, but we can trade blow jobs." Morgan is still gaping at him, so Boone rolls his eyes and motions for him to lay down. "Look bud, you woke me up at fucking seven in the morning. At the very least you owe me an orgasm."

"You're out of your fucking mind." Morgan hesitates for a long moment, chewing on his lip, but eventually he strips down and joins Boone on the bed. His dick is still soft, not yet on board with Boone's plan, though he doesn't stop him when Boone pushes forward for a kiss, morning breath and all. "You're also gross, brush your teeth."

"Or you can just get your mouth somewhere else on me."

Morgan eyes him up, head to toe, then he grins as he shifts down to kneel between Boone's thighs, getting a hand around his cock. "I guess I do owe you."

When Boone's alarm goes off later, just before nine, he's two orgasms deep--one in Morgan's mouth, the second from a particularly skilled hand job--and feeling much better about the lost sleep. Boone returned the favor on the BJ and so Morgan is also looking pretty damn satisfied.

"Way better than whatever else you were planning to do this morning, right?" Boone asks, laying heavily against Morgan's side, idly scratching over his sternum. 

Morgan chuckles, rumbling deep in his chest under Boone's hand. "I really hate to admit you were right, but I guess that was _okay_."

"I've got the taste of come in my mouth," Boone protests, sucking a bite into Morgan's shoulder, just shy of marking the skin. "It was damn well better than just okay."

"Ehh," Morgan says, dragging the word out, the breath catching in his throat. "Fine, fine, you win. But only because I don't have time to argue. I've gotta shower and go for testing soon. Game tonight." 

Just like that, the easy banter between them dissipates. In less than 12 hours they're going to be opponents again, for a game that could send one of them home. Boone gets his clothes on and goes back to his own room after Morgan checks that the hall is clear of any Maple Leafs players. There's no kiss goodbye, only a quick _see you later_ from Boone and a grunted agreement from Morgan.

It might be a good thing that Boone has only a half hour before he has to meet with the team; it doesn't leave him with any time to dwell on how he doesn't really want this little arrangement to end.


	6. Chapter 6

Game four has a distinctly different look from game three. The Blue Jackets are up 2-0 with only a few minutes left and the Maple Leafs aren't showing much life; it looks as if they're going to cruise comfortably to win the game and the series. That feeling only intensifies when Fliggy strips Morgan of the puck just inside the Leafs' blue line with five minutes to go in the third. He taps it over to Boone and he wrists one in past Andersen.

Game, set, match. 

Adrenaline flares through Boone's veins, firing him up despite the drain of playing two games in just over 24 hours. As he skates down to fistbump his team, he notices Morgan on the bench, cursing at himself, smashing his stick in half on the boards. Boone's been responsible for a bad goal against more than once in his career, he can only imagine how Morgan is feeling, knowing that it's very possibly sealed the win for Columbus.

The Leafs aren't quite ready to go away yet, though. They pull Andersen with four minutes left in the game and through a scramble in front of the net, Nylander pokes one past Elvis. Boone is really, really glad he scored that third goal.

He's even happier for it a minute later when the Jackets leave Tavares alone between the circles and he makes Boone's goal the go-ahead one. What looked like an easy win all of a sudden is now anything but. The Jackets have to kill off the rest of the period and try desperately to hold the lead. 

It looks like it might be over when PLD wrists a shot at the Leafs' empty net, trying to repeat his heroics from the night before, only it doesn't actually go in. The puck gets stuck in the plastic lining on the outside of the net, just inches from where it needed to be. 

After a flurry of action in front of Elvis, Fliggy gets the puck to Gus and they get another shot at the empty net, but in a last ditch effort, Morgan gets his stick outstretched and deflects it, extending the Leafs' season just a little longer. Toronto gets one last chance at it.

And then Matthews is in front of Boone, passing it to Hyman who gets the puck in the slot, wide open. Before Boone even gets a chance to curse about it, the puck is in the net and there's a pile of Leafs players crowding against the glass. 

3-3 game. It's just like the night before, only this time it's the Jackets who gave up the lead.

Torts is apoplectic behind the bench, telling them all what dipshits they are, how fucking useless each one of them is, slamming his fist on the glass behind him. Boone tries to shut him out, focusing on steadying his breathing, keeping the tension from tightening his shoulders. The locker room during the intermission is quiet except for Torts screaming at them and then Fliggy reminding them that they've got this, they can _beat_ this team. They just need one more goal and it's over.

The overtime isn't the prettiest hockey in the world. It's an extra period tacked onto the third game of the day, a week into August, so the ice is far from ideal. Both teams have chances but their goalies keep them in it. Just after the mid-period break to clean up the ice, though, Fliggy goes hard into the corner with Morgan, who loses an edge and goes full speed, feet-first into the boards. It's an ugly looking play, and Morgan goes down in a heap, takes a moment to climb up off of his hands and knees. Boone doesn't notice until he hears Fliggy screaming at the official that there's a penalty coming. Once they finally get control of the puck and the play is whistled dead, Fliggy is incensed, yelling at the ref standing between him and Morgan; Fliggy accuses him of diving, pleading for an even-up call.

Boone doesn't see Morgan as the type to embellish, but this isn't about gut feelings, this is about winning, so he joins into the conversation, asking for clarification. The ref calls it a trip, and he has no sympathy for their arguments, so Fliggy stalks off to the box, cursing a blue streak the whole way. 

As Boone heads to the bench, he glances over to see Morgan taking a quick spin, flexing each ankle in turn, but he looks no worse for the wear. It irritates Boone to realize how relieved he is about that.

It ends very, very quickly after that. Only ten seconds into the power play, Matthews gets a clear shot at the net and buries it, and just like that the role reversal from game three is complete. 

Fliggy and Torts are both giving it to the refs as everyone files off the ice, and then Torts tears into the team as soon as they're in the locker room. Elvis is hunched over, staring at the ground between his feet, flinching when Torts kicks a trash can down. He deserved better than this, and Boone knows that they're all determined to get this done for both him and Korpi in game five. 

He has to do media tonight, which is only slightly less terrible via Zoom than it is with a cadre of mics and cell phones shoved in his face. But dealing with the press after any loss sucks, and after a loss like _this_ it's nearly unbearable. He's one of the last to leave the rink, only a few others still hanging around getting treatment from trainers.

When he gets off of the elevator, he has his head down, catching up on Instagram and pointedly ignoring the various sports apps on his phone. He doesn't look up until he's nearing the end of the hallway, and when he does, Morgan is standing outside of his door. Boone slows to a stop just a few feet from him.

"Look, I know you earned the right to gloat tonight, but can we not do this?"

But when Morgan meets his gaze, there's nothing smug or victorious on his face. He looks just as exhausted as he did this morning, the circles under his eyes darker if anything. "It was a fucking miracle your goal didn't put it away, we both know that." His voice is rough, monotone, and the half-hearted smile he gives is obviously forced. "I damn near gift-wrapped the whole series for you."

Wait. The Leafs won tonight, in spectacular fashion, and Morgan is standing here at midnight beating himself up for a goal that, in the end, meant nothing? Boone watches him silently for a long while, long enough that Morgan starts to fidget, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 

"How's the ankle?"

Morgan looks down, flexing the one in question. "It wasn't too bad, just a stinger. It was the same foot I broke this year, scared the shit out of me." 

"Fliggy might try to kill you next time."

"'Fliggy' shouldn't put his stick in guys' skates."

Boone nods just one time, not ready to sell out his captain, but not necessarily disagreeing with Morgan either. He saw the replays, he knows the penalty was deserved. Maybe it was something that might often go ignored in overtime, but it was unmistakably a trip.

Morgan pushes off of the wall and nudges his door open, holding it for Boone, looking back at him, a silent invitation. 

It's been a long day. Two long ones, really, with back-to-back overtime games. His body is aching and he should sleep--Torts is very likely going to punish them in practice tomorrow for the game tonight--but Boone nods. "Give me one minute." 

He unlocks his own door and steps inside just long enough to grab the bottle of lube and a couple of condoms, because he really hopes he's read this right and that he's going to need them. Morgan left his door propped open and Boone steps inside, then flips the lock over the door and steps out of his shoes.

He turns, not sure exactly what he's expecting from Morgan tonight. He should be smug after the win, holding it over Boone's head. Instead, he's sitting on the bed, shoulders slumped and his head hanging low. Looking at his posture, anyone would think his team had been on the losing end tonight. Boone walks over to him and brushes a hand through his hair, offering a lopsided grin when Morgan looks up.

"Geez, bud. I should be the one moping here, not you."

Morgan laughs just a little bit, one huff of air through his nose. "You should probably just be pissed, your goal looked like the guarantee up until the last minute there."

"I'm pretty positive you wouldn't have invited me in here tonight if that was the one that won it." Boone nudges Morgan to lean back and straddles his hips. "Though maybe I could've talked you into it." 

"Hm, maybe you could have. I would've been really shitty company though, if you had." Morgan slides his hands to Boone's hips, but the smile on his face is a touch more genuine now. "I'd have been a grumpy asshole. It wouldn't have been any good for you."

"Oh yeah, and you're just a ball of sunshine tonight," Boone purses his lips and tilts his head. "Cheer up, dumbass, you won."

Morgan laughs now, _really_ laughs, and Boone responds by pressing a kiss to his smile, cutting him off mid-chuckle. He threads both of his hands through Morgan's hair and deepens the kiss, sweeping his tongue through his mouth. Morgan lies fully on the bed and takes Boone with him, winding his arms around his waist, his hands splaying wide across Boone's back. They end up stretched out across the mattress, legs tangled together, and the kisses turn slow, lazy. Morgan pulls Boone's shirt off and then after a moment of hesitation removes his own as well, and when Boone smoothes his hands up over Morgan's shoulders, he feels the tension bleeding out of them, while Morgan goes pliant against him.

Boone shifts to his back and tugs Morgan on top of him, grinning at the look of surprise on Morgan's face. "You owe me from last night, you know. I had all these plans and you didn't even talk to me after the game."

If nothing else, Morgan looks appropriately shamed by that, ducking his head. "It was a brutal way to lose, and I knew how awful the press was gonna be after it. I just kinda wanted to hide from it all."

"Well I get that, but it doesn't mean you don't still owe me." Boone is scratching along the nape of Morgan's neck, twisting hair around his fingers. " _And_ for waking me up so early this morning."

Morgan's grin goes devilish and he settles himself between Boone's legs, walking his fingertips up his inner thighs. "I was pretty sure I made up for that already, but if you insist, I suppose I can make good on that too." 

Boone shifts up so that Morgan can tug his pants down, then his boxers; his cock is heavy, chubbing up, though he's not fully hard just yet. That seems to fit the mood, though; tonight doesn't feel as urgent as their other encounters. They're both tired, drained from the stress of an elimination game, not to mention the unique circumstances they're playing in, locked away from friends and family, away from their own homes. Morgan pulls away and shifts to his knees, leaning over Boone's cock, curling his fingers around the base, and he looks up with a sheepish smile. "Can't even get it up for me tonight? You're killing my self-confidence."

It doesn't take much for Boone's body to react to the touch, and a few moments later he's thrusting up into Morgan's grip, biting on his lip to stifle the moans. He reaches for Morgan's pants, tugging at the waist of them. Foreplay is great, but it's already late and he would like to sleep. Not before they both get off, but still. Once Morgan is naked--he's already fully hard and leaking at the tip, Boone is very pleased to notice--Boone fumbles to hand him the lube.

Morgan is thorough with prep, and Boone would have expected nothing less. He works in one finger and then two, opening him up carefully while he feathers kisses over Boone's stomach and hip, lingering over an ugly looking bruise that's darkening the pale skin of his thigh. By the time Morgan has three fingers working into him, Boone is desperate for it, sweat slicking his skin as he squirms, grasping at the condoms and holding one up. "I'm _good_ , just fuck me already," he damn near pleads.

The response is a smile and a soft peck on the lips, but Morgan takes direction well, and a moment later he's got the condom rolled on and he's guiding his cock into Boone, alternating between watching that and Boone's reaction, searching his face even while Morgan himself is biting his lower lip hard enough to turn it white. Boone hooks his legs around his hips and tightens them, trying to urge him along.

He'd forgotten what it feels like to bottom, this is the first time Boone has done it in a couple of years. The first push inside is always a little uncomfortable, feels a little too full, like he isn't sure he can handle it; by the time Morgan has reached the hilt, though, his head hanging against Boone's shoulder and his breath coming in harsh gasps, Boone remembers the good part. Every nerve ending is on high alert and the adrenaline of it rushes through him, so when Morgan withdraws and thrusts deep again Boone can't help but moan, long and low. 

Boone wants harder, faster, _more_ , but Morgan is content to keep the rhythm steady, conserving the energy. He plants kisses along Boone's jaw and neck, sinking his teeth lightly into Boone's shoulder, dragging a hiss out of him. 

"Don't worry, not gonna mark you up." Morgan mouths a kiss over the same spot, swirling his tongue over it. Boone doesn't say that if they weren't here in this bubble, around their teammates, he might not be opposed to it. 

"Come on, I need more." _This_ is something Boone feels like he can ask for, and Morgan obliges. He speeds his pace, thrusting faster now, and he curls his fingers around Boone's cock. He doesn't quite match the same rhythm, but it's close enough. Morgan shifts the tilt of his hips and Boone's entire body goes taut, his nails digging into Morgan's back. If he's not careful, he'll be the one marking up Morgan.

Boone isn't even sure what he's saying now, just a string of curses and moans, and Morgan holds the same angle, keeps stroking Boone's dick to match. He's muttering quiet encouragement into Boone's shoulder, telling him how good it is, how he can't get enough. Boone thrusts up into his fist once more and comes, stars behind his eyes while Morgan works him through it. He hasn't yet caught his breath when Morgan goes still over him, panting through his own orgasm while Boone clings to him. 

Morgan slumps down afterward, his face hidden against Boone's shoulder. Boone pets through his hair, damp and curling on the ends, but keeps him where he is when Morgan mumbles something about being too heavy, though the words are muffled, a little slurred.

"Shut up, I can handle you laying on me." Boone keeps his legs hooked loose around Morgan's thighs, and he doesn't even mind the sticky feel of the sweat drying on their skin. Morgan finally disentangles himself so he can get rid of the condom, and he brings back a washcloth so Boone can clean himself up.

Boone sits up and stretches his arms over his head, watching Morgan move around the room, pulling on his own boxers and t-shirt before folding Boone's clothes neatly and setting them on the desk chair. When he notices Boone watching he wrinkles his nose. 

"What?"

"You're always so responsible and proper, doesn't it get exhausting?" 

Morgan puts down Boone's polo that he had been carefully folding. "I guess I don't really think about it most of the time. It's just something I do."

"And it's admirable, but hell, relax for a while. You played way more minutes the last two nights than I did, you've gotta be tired." Boone pushes the blankets aside and motions to the bed. "I'll deal with my own clothes."

He hesitates for a long moment, but in the end Morgan takes the invitation and crawls back onto the bed. Boone should get up, should get dressed and go next door to his room. Instead, he turns on his side and curls up against Morgan's side, sliding a hand under his shirt and pulling him into a kiss, slow and lazy, his tongue barely flicking out against the seam of Morgan's lips. "What the hell kind of post-sex cuddling is this, you're wearing clothes?"

"Cuddling?" Morgan asks against his mouth, and even though he whispers it, the incredulousness comes through loud and clear. 

"Fuck off about it, eh? You just beat me on the ice _and_ then you fucked me." Boone peels Morgan's shirt off and then does the same with his boxers, and if Morgan isn't on board with his plan, he's not good at showing it, because he shifts to his side and pulls Boone into his arms. They lay like that for a while, trading kisses, the occasional nip of teeth, until Boone feels his limbs growing heavy and he tucks himself in tighter. He drifts off just like that, his face hidden in the crook between Morgan's jaw and shoulder.


	7. Chapter 7

When Boone wakes up, he learns that Morgan's incredibly early alarm is far more ear-piercing on this side of the wall. Morgan mutters a few curse words as he fumbles for his phone to stop the noise, shifting from where he'd been laying: still curled on his side the same way he was when they fell asleep. Boone, though, is spread out on his stomach, one knee up, the other leg stretched out, with most of the sheets twisted around his body.

"Oh my god, I hate you so much," Boone grumbles, muffled into the pillow he's face-down in.

"I forgot to turn it off." Morgan yanks at the sheets to untangle them from Boone's torso, trying to spread them out more evenly. "Of course you'd be a blanket hog."

Boone starts to complain, but then Morgan is sliding close against him, kissing over his shoulder, up the back of his neck, humming a soft, sleepy sound of approval into his hair. He nudges Boone's legs farther apart and nestles between them, his thick thighs between Boone's own, Morgan's large body anchoring him to the bed. Boone isn't sure either of them planned for it to turn into sex again, but Morgan is hard a moment later and Boone finds himself asking for it--it's not begging, he would never admit to begging--so there's no good reason _not_ to. It's unhurried, almost leisurely, and even when Boone comes it's not quite the black-out, earth-shattering orgasm from the night before, but it feels really, really good all the same. And despite the obscenely early wake-up, maybe this isn't the _worst_ way to start a morning. 

Morgan comes back to bed after a quick clean-up and keeps dropping kisses over Boone's shoulders, along his spine, and as much as he would like to stay right here and let Morgan keep doing exactly this, he knows that this very early hour is the best time for him to sneak back over to his own room. 

"Mm, okay, alright. As much as you're making me wanna stay right where I am," Boone interrupts, and Morgan nudges his nose behind his ear as he talks, "I've gotta get back over to mine so none of your teammates see me."

If they weren't so very intimately tucked against each other, Boone would've missed the disappointed sigh that Morgan lets out. "Yeah, you're probably right. And we've got the early test time this morning, so guys'll be up soon."

Boone hauls himself out of bed and stretches out all the little aches, some from the back-to-back games, others from the sex the night before and the replay in the morning. He's not sure which are more satisfying. Morgan watches while he dresses, and Boone gives a sheepish smile as he pulls out his key. "So, uh, I'll see you around then."

Morgan grins right back from where he's sitting up in bed. "You know where to find me."

Back in his own room, Boone plugs in his phone, strips out of his clothes, and then crawls into bed. It's too quiet, the bed too empty. The extra two hours of sleep that he gets are restless. He should've just stayed awake. 

____

The day is just like every other day in the bubble: practice, COVID test, media, lunch. It's a routine Boone has very quickly gotten used to, but today he keeps finding himself distracted. Sure he worries about the game the next day, whether they can wrest the momentum back from Toronto. But he doesn't want to admit how much he's thinking about Morgan. 

They weren't necessarily friends back when they played together for Canada in World Juniors, but there was no antagonism. He's not sure what brought it on this time around, whether it was just the rough start on the first night or a byproduct of team rivalry. He knows Morgan irritated him the first few days but now he isn't entirely sure how to feel. 

" _Boone_."

Boone blinks up at Ryan, who is watching him curiously, who also never calls him by his first name. He must've run through all of Boone's nicknames first. "Sorry, bud. Just thinking."

"I know that's difficult for you. So what's got you all distracted?" 

"Can I say I'm thinking about the game tomorrow?"

"You can," Ryan agrees, nodding slowly. "But I'll know you're full of shit."

They've been friends forever--they roomed together for the first time way back when Boone was 16 years old, came up in the NHL together, lived in the same apartment for years--so Ryan knows Boone as well as anyone else. Of course he'd pick up on his mood.

"You've just been pretty MIA since we've been here. The boys are all too focused on COD to notice, I'm pretty sure, but I've noticed the absence. You aren't _really_ selling us out to the Leafs, are you?" He jams an elbow into Boone's side and Boone gives it back.

"Ha, hilarious. But no, I swear that's not it. Just some personal stuff."

"Girl stuff?" 

Boone turns the words over in his head, considering what to reveal. With anyone else he'd just laugh it off and agree. Ryan is different. He knows Boone, but he knows Morgan as well. They'd been drafted at the same time, played together for Team North America a few years back. Even in the midst of a playoff series--or something close to it--he had maintained a positive rapport with Morgan. Besides, he'd caught guys leaving Boone's room in the morning more than once when they lived together. Boone's sexuality isn't a secret he ever kept from Ryan.

So he went for the truth. "Something like that, I guess so. Couple of late nights, and uh. Rielly's next door to me, and his alarm--"

Ryan laughs, interrupting him. "Christ, he's _still_ got that foghorn thing at six in the morning? I thought he'd have gotten over that by now."

"Nope, the foghorn alarm is still kicking. You can hear it through the wall." Boone takes a quick glance around the team lounge to see who might be in earshot. Savvy and PL are off to the side, in the midst of a Facetime call with Savvy's kids. Jonesy, Wenny and Z are playing cards a few tables away. No one is close enough to eavesdrop. "And uh. It's way louder in the same room."

It's a good thing Ryan doesn't have a mouthful of the coffee he's been sipping on, because it would have gone everywhere. He coughs once, dodging looks from everyone else in the room. "Sorry guys, swallowed wrong. It's not COVID," he waves to assure them, and then waits until everyone turns back to their conversations. "Okay, hold on. You're in Mo's room first thing in the morning because…?"

"Sleeping with the enemy, guilty as charged."

Ryan nods a couple of times, taking a drink of his coffee as he contemplates this news. "Well that explains a lot. But shit, you guys have been pushing and shoving each other around this whole series? Is it just like...a hate thing? Getting out the aggression?"

"Uh. Maybe?" Boone scratches his jaw, tugging at his beard, if only to have something to do with his hands. "Started that way anyhow."

"And then you actually _slept_ with him. Stayed the night."

"Not exactly how hatesex works, eh?"

Ryan is staring off in the distance, pursing his lips. For as much as Boone blurts out every dumb thought that comes to mind, Ryan's always been far more careful when he speaks. If he's judging Boone for this, it doesn't show, he just looks like he's taking time to choose his words. "I've never actually done the hatesex thing, so I can't say for sure what the rules are on that. But I'm pretty sure spending the night isn't included. What's the plan after all this?"

"Funnily enough, we haven't had The Talk to like, 'define our relationship' or any of that shit," Boone says, complete with air quotes. "I don't know. Hell, he might still hate me."

"Mo's not gonna fuck someone he hates, that's for sure. I'm shocked he's doing that at all, he's usually too uptight for hookups." Ryan finally looks at Boone again. "So I'm gonna guess he doesn't hate you, and it doesn't look like you hate him. So you might have to do that whole 'defining the relationship' bullshit you mentioned. Dumbass."

"Really don't wanna do that." Boone is imagining how that conversation would go and he wants to crawl out of his skin at the thought. He's more than happy to never have a frank discussion about something like emotions. This conversation with Ryan is uncomfortable enough, and he _trusts_ Ryan.

"Well then, I guess you're gonna have to get what you can until the next game ends," Ryan says definitively. "And then you just go your separate ways when the series is done. And then you've just gotta hope you haven't done some dumb shit like caught feelings."

Boone blanches at that, annoyed that it hits too close. He's even more annoyed because he knows Ryan is _aware_ that it hits too close. "You're a terrible friend."

Ryan grins broadly and claps his hand on Boone's shoulder. "Just keeping you honest. Good luck."

____

Boone spends most of the day wondering when he should talk to Morgan, or even _if_ he should; sure he trusts Ryan, but Ryan's been single for years. How does he know how to deal with something like this? Maybe he shouldn't say anything at all. Maybe it's just situational. If they weren't in the bubble right now, none of this would've happened.

He's shaking his head at himself as he steps onto the elevator, lost in his own thoughts, but he stops with one foot in and one foot out. Inside the car there stands Morgan, along with Marner and Barrie, all looking at him like he's crazy. 

"Oh, uh. Hey guys. I could just wait for the next one-" 

"We're not gonna jump you or anything, dude, you're fine." Barrie says, rolling his eyes. He and Marner shift to one side and Morgan stays where he is, leaning against the wall right in the middle of the elevator, his eyes still on Boone.

"Right, of course. All good." Boone folds himself into the corner, arms crossed over his chest. He ignores the awkward silence and stares at his shoes, focusing on them as if he's not intensely aware of Morgan only a couple of feet away.

He's the first one off the elevator, and he hears Morgan wish a good night to his teammates. Boone walks slowly toward the end of the hall, digging in his pocket to get his key and then twisting it back and forth between his fingers. He's just tapping to unlock the door when Morgan makes his way down the hall, and he holds it open, looking up at Morgan with one brow lifted. 

Morgan steps inside but he doesn't sit down. "I can't really stay tonight, we shouldn't do this the night before a big game." 

"No, you're right, I know that. I just wanted to like, talk or something?" Boone probably should have had a plan for this, but he doesn't really know where to go from here. 

"Talk? We haven't done a whole lot of that, other than annoying each other on purpose." Morgan is watching Boone pace, but he's standing stock still, hands shoved in his pockets. 

"Do you wear anything other than hoodies?" Boone blurts it out, and immediately makes a face at himself when Morgan tilts his head. "Sorry, I just noticed them. This is like the fifth one I've seen you wearing."

"They're comfortable and easy, I guess. I never thought about it much. If I don't have to wear a suit, I'm usually not going to." Morgan eyes him curiously. "But I don't think my choice of clothing was what you had in mind?"

"Ahh, no, not exactly. I just think I wanted to say, um. I don't hate you? Like we talked about that at the beginning of this, how we were supposed to hate each other. And I don't. Like, not even on the ice, even if I want to." Boone rubs a hand over his face. He sounds like an idiot.

"Yeah? Not even on the ice? That one might be dicey for me." Morgan is smiling, Boone can hear it in his voice before he looks up for confirmation. "On the ice you're kind of a pain in the ass. But off it? Nah. No hate here."

"So like, even after this is over, we could still stay…" Boone hesitates, unsure of where to end the question, but eventually he falters. "Friends?"

Morgan levels him with a curious look. "Friends, huh? Is that what this is?" 

"It's something like that, I think? We're not enemies, so I figure that puts us in the friends category."

"So what you're saying," Morgan says, stepping closer to Boone, but not quite touching him, "is that you get naked with your friends?"

"No!" Boone responds immediately, too fast, too emphatic, so he repeats himself with less fervor. "No. That's not really a friend thing, usually."

"Then I guess we're not really _friends_ , huh?" Morgan is right in front of Boone now, nose to nose. There's a challenge in his gaze, one lifted brow. 

Boone takes a breath and lets it out through his teeth. "Not _quite_ friends, but something like it."

A corner of Morgan's lips quirks up, and he huffs out a single chuckle, barely even a noise at all. "But whatever it is, you want to keep it up after we figure out who wins this thing?"

Just a nod, that's Boone's only response, because he doesn't trust his voice right now.

Morgan closes the last bit of distance between them and slides his hand to the back of Boone's neck, pressing a firm kiss to his mouth, but pulling back before Boone has a chance to return it. "May the best man win. Good luck tomorrow."

He's out the door before Boone can say anything else.


	8. Chapter 8

"One game, boys, just one game and we've got this." Fliggy is standing in the locker room just minutes before they're going to head onto the ice, looking at each guy in turn. "We beat a way better team last spring, and we're going to get to repeat that if we get past these assholes tonight. So let's get fucking rid of them."

"Hear hear!" Boone holds his hands over his head, clapping along with the rest of the team, all going quiet when Torts comes in to remind them all of the same stuff, just with far more profanity. 

PLD can't sit still, his knees bouncing with anticipation. Ryan has been trying to smooth the same piece of tape over his stick for five minutes. Korpi has his head hanging low, staring blankly at a spot on the ground, fully zoned out. They're as ready as they can be for this game, and he fistbumps each of his teammates as they file out of the locker room and toward the rink. 

It's not even ten minutes into the first period when Z scores to put the Jackets up 1-0, and the early lead is nice but it certainly doesn't mean this game is anywhere near over. They trade chances with the Leafs, momentum shifting to each end of the ice, but the score holds through the end of the second period. Only 20 minutes left, and during the intermission, Boone is the one who can't sit still. He's fidgeting with his socks, his skate laces, flexing his ankles and keeping his wrists stretched. When they head back out, Boone takes a deep breath before he steps on the ice, and then he lines up for the faceoff, glancing across the ice at Morgan. He tries to offer a smile, but Morgan is 100% focused on the puck.

The third period is much like the second--hard battles, scoring chances at either end, both goalies standing tall for their teams--and every passing minute ratchets the tension higher. When the clock gets to the halfway mark of the period, each team realizes that the next goal is huge. It either gives Toronto life or it snuffs it out. 

Foudy answers that question pretty quickly, getting a goal past Andersen that brings the tense Blue Jackets bench to its feet. The Leafs try to get it back, throwing everything they have at the net, but Korpi is back to the brick wall he'd been earlier in the series. Nothing goes in, no matter what Toronto attempts. Very fittingly, the empty net goal to seal it goes to Fliggy, leading the Jackets as he always does.

The horn blares: it's over, Columbus moves on, the Leafs are done. Both teams line up for handshakes as always; even if they're supposed to be fistbumps this year, no one is worrying about COVID protocol moments after a series ends. Most interactions are quick, just clasped hands and a muttered _great series_. 

Then he gets to Morgan.

Morgan gives a weak smile that doesn't meet his eyes and curls his fingers around Boone's hand. Boone squeezes back and cups a hand on his shoulder. 

"Best man wins, eh?" Morgan asks without any humor. "Make it count."

"Gonna do my best." And then Boone leans closer so only Morgan can hear. "Talk later?"

Morgan nods once, pats Boone on the chest, and then he moves down the line. Boone doesn't have time to dwell, to wonder what happens next, because there's a win to celebrate. 

____

The hallway is deathly silent when Boone steps off of the elevator back at the hotel. He's pretty sure the Leafs are staying the night and departing tomorrow, but he's not entirely sure. Some of these guys live close enough to be home already. His stomach is tied in knots as he walks down the corridor. He's had 24 hours to determine what to say to Morgan but he still isn't sure. He should've gotten more advice from Ryan.

He stops in his own room before anything else. The first thing is a change out of his polo and jeans into joggers and a hoodie; while he's wholly uncomfortable having this conversation, he might as well be dressed comfortably. He takes a few breaths and mutters a pep talk to himself, then steps back into the hall, tapping lightly on Morgan's door with his knuckles. 

There's a not-small part of Boone that thinks maybe Morgan just left, didn't want to talk about this. Maybe he just wants to leave this as a "what happens in the bubble stays in the bubble" situation. He worries about it all the way until he hears the latch click and the door opens up to Morgan on the other side, hair disheveled, brow furrowed.

"Hey," Boone says, relief rushing out in a breath. "I was hoping you were still here."

There's the slightest crack in Morgan's frown, the corner of his mouth ticking up. "Where did you think I was going to be?"

"I thought after all of that," Boone motions vaguely with one hand, like it explains anything, "you might not want to do this. Maybe you left already."

"I've gotta pack all of my stuff anyway, and we made plans to meet. I'm not that sore a loser that I'd blow you off after all of this." Morgan steps back to let Boone inside. His suitcase is up on the couch, tidy stacks of clothing next to it, a duffel bag on the floor in front. He has one beer opened already and he offers another to Boone. Boone twists off the cap and takes a drink, watching Morgan move around the room. He shifts a few things off of the bed, lines up a couple pairs of shoes. He's not looking at Boone.

"I'm sorry," Boone says to break the increasingly awkward silence. "Sorry that you had to lose so we could win. You really did have a great series."

"Can we not talk about hockey tonight?" Morgan asks, still staring at anything but Boone. "I know it sucks, I've been here way too many times before. I'll have to talk about it way too much later, I want to just _not_ do that tonight."

Boone takes a drink of his beer and takes stock of the room. "Do you want any help?"

Morgan finally looks at him, patronizing. "Oh, so you're here to help me _pack_ ," he snaps. "No, I think I can manage packing my own shit up. Thanks."

"Christ, okay. It was just an offer."

"It's pity, and if you're going to give me that bullshit, you can go."

Even in their first couple of days here when Morgan was clearly annoyed with Boone, he wasn't quite this blunt about it, and Boone takes a step back. "Hey, bud, cool it. I'm not the enemy anymore. But to answer you: no, I didn't come here to help you fucking pack."

"So why did you? Why are you here?"

Boone drinks half of his beer in one gulp and sets the bottle down, a little too hard. "Well I was pretty sure we'd discussed continuing this...this _thing_ between us. So I thought we could do that now."

Morgan sighs heavily, then sits on the edge of the bed. He puts his elbows on his knees and rakes both hands through his hair, his shoulders hunched. "Right. Sorry, I'm being a dick. Just so fucking tired of the same shit every year."

"It's not your fault, you know." Boone is hesitant as he takes a step closer, then another, until he's standing in front of Morgan. "And ignore the media. There are only a handful of them who have ever put on skates, and even fewer who played the game at all. They don't know shit." 

"It's just the same fucking questions every year, and I don't even know how to answer them anymore. I can't figure out what the hell is wrong either. I don't know why we can't get over the hump, but they're still going to ask me."

Boone smoothes a hand through Morgan's hair, down over his neck, kneading the tense muscles there. "It's their job to ask the same stupid questions. And it's yours to just give them boring non-answers because who gives a fuck about them? You answer to your coach and your teammates. Fuck that other pressure."

"It's just not that simple." Morgan isn't combative anymore, he states it as a fact.

"Well no, I get that a little better now. They're fucking vultures up here." Boone tightens his hand in Morgan's hair, just barely, and tilts his head back like that, so Morgan's looking up at him. "But you can't let it tie you up in knots, eh? Use it as motivation to prove them wrong. If you wanna shut them up, just play your game and shove it down their throats."

Boone braces himself; his unsolicited advice could easily piss Morgan off, but it was worth the risk. Morgan watches him, expression unreadable, and then finally he nods, just one time. "I guess you have a point. Maybe I'm putting too much emphasis on worrying about what those assholes are writing."

"Just don't read it, don't watch it. You're not getting out of doing media, but leave it there. They don't know fuck all about what happens in the room or on the ice." Boone is just petting his fingers through his hair now, soothing strokes that Morgan is leaning into. "You're too good to let them get in your head like this."

Morgan smiles, a real smile even if it's still a little guarded. "So you're still wanting to do whatever this is, even seeing what a dick I can be when we lose?"

"Bud, you were a dick before we started this." Boone pulls on Morgan's hair, one quick tug. "At least this way I get laid too." 

"I'm not planning to go far this summer, or however long until we start next season. I've gotta go home to Vancouver to take care of a few things, but I'm always in Toronto starting in September so I'm just sticking with that." Morgan bites his lower lip and shrugs a shoulder, looking up at Boone. He looks soft, a little vulnerable, and Boone decides he likes getting to see this side of him; he's pretty sure Morgan doesn't like to show it off to very many people. "I know you're from over this way, so we'd be in the same area for a while, anyway."

"Yeah, my parents are a bit of a drive from here, but you could stay with me if you came out, or I can come here for a while," Boone hesitates before he continues. "But that's probably a little much for just a hookup, so I don't know."

Morgan rolls his eyes comically. "Oh fuck off with that. I realize I'm an uptight dumbass and we're probably way too emotionally stunted to actually give this thing a name, but you and I both know this isn't just a hookup. We just need some time to figure out what it _is_."

"Hey, don't put your emotionally stunted label on me. I was the one who suggested we keep doing this!" Boone tips Morgan's head back more and leans down for a biting kiss, cutting off any of his protests. "So it's just you being an uptight dumbass."

An arm wraps around Boone's waist and he finds himself toppled onto the bed, with Morgan hovering over him, a silly, playful smile on his face. "Is this what this whole thing is gonna be? You antagonizing me until I shove you down and shut you up?"

"I'm gonna annoy the hell out of you," Boone confirms with a shit-eating grin.

"I hate you," Morgan says. Boone knows he doesn't mean it.

____

Boone convinces Morgan that he does not need the pre-dawn wakeup the next morning. 

"It's the offseason, sleep in a little."

"I wouldn't need the sleep if someone didn't keep me up until the middle of the night."

"Oh sorry, was that you I was just having sex with? I could've sworn it was your come I just swallowed." Boone smirks, making a big show of licking his lips. "Yep, definitely you. But if you prefer _sleep_ over _sex_ , I'll keep that in mi-"

He's interrupted by Morgan tackling him down on the bed to shut him up. Even though it's after three in the morning, a wrestling match ensues. Morgan wins. Boone might have let him. It ends with him on his back, Morgan holding his wrists over his head and kissing him senseless, so Boone will take that kind of a loss anyday.

When Morgan finally falls asleep, he's sprawled half on top of Boone, head on his shoulder. Boone wonders if Morgan has ever been the cuddlee rather than the cuddler before. He likes the idea of being the big spoon for a guy like Morgan; he likes the idea that he could be the little spoon sometimes too. 

Boone has to leave first in the morning--the Jackets are the first team on the COVID test schedule today, and then they have team meetings to prepare for the Lightning--but Morgan is still awake before him, packing up the last of his stuff. "Even on days off, up with the sun, eh?"

"I wasn't up until eight," Morgan rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. His melancholy mood from the night before seems to have lifted, and Boone silently takes a little credit for it. 

"Will you be gone before I'm back from practice?" Boone hauls himself out of bed and searches the room for his clothes. Morgan has them folded neatly on the desk chair. Of course he does. "Or are you sticking around a while?"

"Gotta be out by checkout time, 11 am. So I'll be out of the bubble before you're back here." 

"So I'm not gonna see you for a while then? Just Facetime I guess." Boone plays off his disappointment with a wiggle of his eyebrows. "And maybe some dirty Snapchats."

Morgan's arms slide around Boone's waist just as he finishes getting dressed. "I'm not sending dick pics. I'm a goddamn gentleman. I'll be in town for a few days to handle some media stuff, and then I'm heading to Vancouver for a while. I'll be back at the end of the month. So it depends how long you guys stay in it."

"Obviously all the way," Boone says, his bravado mostly a joke. He would love to believe that they're bound for the Cup, but they haven't even officially started the playoffs yet, so there's a long road ahead. Anything can happen though, especially in a year as weird as this one. "But if not, we'll have to meet up when you get back here."

"You'd better make it worthwhile, eh? I'm not going home early for you to flame out in one round." Morgan glances at his watch and frowns. "You should probably go."

"Just as responsible as ever, even when it's not about you." Boone knows the smile on his face is overtly fond, but he can't help it. There's something sweet about how damn earnest Morgan is. "But you're right, I do need to leave."

Morgan slides one hand up the middle of Boone's back and pulls him into a kiss. Boone returns it in kind, leaning into his touch and threading a hand through his hair. It's brief, but it feels like it's leading to more. It feels like the start of something. Boone is excited to find out what happens.

The next morning, an airhorn blast wakes Boone a little past six AM. He grapples for his phone to turn it off, not nearly awake enough to figure out why the fuck it's blaring when he knows he didn't set it this early. He plans to roll over and go straight back to sleep--he can figure that whole mystery out later--but then a Snapchat from Morgan lights up his screen. When Boone opens it, it's a photo of him holding a cup of coffee and wearing a devious grin. 

_Morning, sunshine. Up and at 'em._

So not really a mystery at all, then, just Morgan antagonizing him. Boone wants to be annoyed, but he finds himself smiling instead. He taps to reply and does so with a quick video, fuzzy and out of focus, the light of his screen not quite bright enough in the otherwise pitch black hotel room. "I hate you so much," he croaks out. 

He doesn't mean it either.


End file.
